Less Than Love Is Nothing
by Guardian-381
Summary: In the aftermath of an argument with Noir, Florian is forced to turn to the most unlikely of people for assistance.
1. Desperate Measures

Author's Note: Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I appreciate everyone who allows me to share my work with them, and would be overjoyed to hear what you think of it. Though this story takes place after my last three works ("Letters to the Darkness", "The Captain", and "Ruby Brown"), it should stand well enough on its own. Of course, if you'd like to read the others, I won't complain. (smiles)

Dedication: As always, to Astra, who wanted to see some more of the Florian/Solomon dynamic. I hope I've done your expectations, as well as the characters, justice.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Gorgeous Carat. In addition, "Less Than Love Is Nothing" is the title of a song by the very talented Jonatha Brooke-- I urge everyone to check out her music! She really is amazing.

Chapter 1: Desperate Measures

It started, as do most quarrels, with something very minor which neither party would recall the details of fifteen minutes after the finality of a slammed door had pronounced it dead.

Even in the heat of the moment, neither Noir nor Florian was really sure what had caused them to degenerate into a shouting match. Of course, there had been catalysts: Noir was annoyed because Florian had spilled coffee on some important documents, to which Florian's defence was that, if Noir wouldn't spend most of his waking moments working, he wouldn't have had to intrude on the sanctuary of his study just to spend some time with him.

"Why can't you be more careful?" Noir growled as he swiped angrily at a notarized loan agreement with an expensive handkerchief.

"I said I was sorry," Florian replied, more frustrated than contrite.

"You're always destroying things." Noir looked up to glare at Florian as though he were a dog who had just soiled an expensive carpet.

"I am not." Florian's voice was perfectly modulated.

"You are. Who broke the blue crystal ashtray in the drawing room?"

"One of the servants left it too close to the edge of the table. It could have fallen down just as easily if anyone else had walked by."

"Really?" Noir's eyes narrowed. "And I suppose the clasp on that bracelet I gave you two months ago snapped on its own?"

"I already explained that to you: I didn't notice I had left it on my nightstand before I put that book down." Florian glared. "Besides, it was almost repaired before you noticed it was missing."

"Whatever," Noir said with childish exasperation as he cast the hopelessly-soiled paper to the floor.

"You know, if you paid half as much attention to me as you are to that stupid piece of paper, I wouldn't even have been in here." Florian's glare intensified, and he felt his shoulders tense up in anticipation of an escalated argument.

Instead, though, Noir just sighed. "Here we go," he muttered as he flipped open his cigar box, withdrew one of the cigars within, and sliced its end with his pocket knife. "Do you mind, or will the smoke disturb your degeneration into melodramatic heroine?"

The patronization stung even more viciously than usual, but Florian forced himself not to respond to it. "I know you don't do it on purpose," he began, "but we've been spending more and more time apart these past few months. Either you're working, or you're planning another robbery, or you're in a bad mood, and I can't disturb you."

"I'm busy. If you need constant companionship, I'll buy you a lapdog."

"It's not that you're busy!" Florian inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes. "That, I could tolerate. That, I _have_ tolerated. It's that..." He sighed. "I feel like you don't want to be with me anymore."

Noir frowned, but looked away. "That's ridiculous," he said darkly.

"It's not just that, even," Florian continued, as though Noir had not spoken. "Even when you're with me, you're always so... critical. Like now: it was an accident, and I apologized, and all you can do is recite my past failings." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "I wasn't aware we were cataloguing each other's mistakes."

Noir turned back to him, and the expression on his face, of the kind that he usually reserved for an annoying noble who caught him on a particularly bad day, brought Florian to the precipice of blind rage. The words that accompanied it pushed him clear over that edge. "I don't need to make any particular effort to catalogue your mistakes: after all, they're usually so unforgettably spectacular."

Bile rose in Florian's throat, and he took a step backward. "I can't stay here. Please excuse me." A moment before he finished speaking, he was already on his way to the door.

"If you can't handle an argument, keep your God-damn mouth shut!" Noir snarled after him.

Florian slammed the door behind him far too late to intercept his lover's parting words, and they followed him into the streets of Paris with all the tenacity of incubi.

---

It was nearly full dark when Solomon's reading was disturbed by a light tapping on his apartment door. In obedience to instincts honed by ceaseless training, Solomon moved slowly from his spot on the couch, closing the book silently and setting it aside even as he reached for the gun that he kept hidden between the split cushions. In all probability, the visitor meant him no harm, but Solomon had seen too many people killed by their own false sense of security to be anything but prepared for any conceivable circumstance.

As quietly as he could, he advanced toward the door with his gun held above his shoulder, though he hated to sneak around in his own home. "Who is it?" he called, not expecting an answer.

A short noise, the sound of the person on the other side of the too-thin portal clearing their throat, and then a familiar voice. "Florian du Rochefort."

Unconsciously, Solomon exhaled, and though he was still unwilling to relinquish the gun completely, he did jam it through his belt before unlocking the door and opening it just far enough to see whether Florian was alone. As far as he could tell by the dim light of the hallway, he was. "Florian. What brings you here at this hour?"

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, Solomon." Something in Florian's tone struck Solomon as different from his usual polite gregariousness, and he frowned. Despite their differences, most notably on the subject of Ray Balzac Courland, Solomon had always had a soft spot for the fallen aristocrat. "May I come in?" He glanced around, somewhat guiltily. "I have no wish to disturb your neighbours any further."

Solomon chuckled as he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped aside to allow Florian entry. "You wouldn't feel that way if you'd lived through some of their parties." He smiled, but sobered instantly when it became clear that Florian wasn't particularly responsive to humour. "Is everything alright?" He paused only long enough to close and lock the door, and then moved close enough to examine Florian's face. "What happened? You aren't hurt, are you?"

Florian shook his head, and Solomon noticed the shadows around his eyes. "No. No, I'm fine." He reached up to push his hair away from his face, and sighed. "I need to ask you a favour."

Solomon nodded. "What is it?"

A short silence unfolded between them before Florian managed to say, very quietly, "I wondered if I might stay here tonight."

Of all the potential requests that Solomon had imagined, not one was remotely close to the truth. "Why? Did something happen?" He glared. "Did Ray--"

"We had an argument," Florian explained. "I left the house... I had to get away. For a while, I just walked around, but then it started to get dark, and I still didn't feel like I could face him." A pause. "I left my wallet in my room, so it was impossible to check into a hotel, and even if I had had the appropriate documents with me, the banks were already closed before I thought to make a withdrawal. I could have asked someone else, I suppose... but Monsieur Tassel and Noel are out of town, and if I went to any of my acquaintances, I'm sure the story would be all over the district within the hour." Florian looked away then, almost as though he were ashamed. "I'm sorry. I feel very childish, intruding in your home because I don't want to go back to my own, but..." He trailed off, and the effort of will that it cost him to meet Solomon's gaze once again was painfully apparent. "I'm sorry. Please, forget I said anything. Forget I came here tonight." He began to circle around Solomon on his way to the door.

"Hang on a second." Solomon caught his arm as he passed, but loosened his grip as soon as he felt Florian flinch. "It's not childish at all," he said. "I understand where you're coming from, and..." He looked around his living room, took in the second- and third-hand furniture and the barely-contained mess, and half-smiled. "Well, it's no loan shark's mansion, but if you don't mind the reduced circumstances, I'm fine with you staying."

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he began to think twice about them: however, the relief in Florian's eyes banished his misgivings before he could so much as articulate them. "I'm sure everything will more than adequate," Florian said with a somewhat forced smile. "Thank you, Solomon. I appreciate this very much."

Solomon released Florian's arm, and waved his hand dismissively. "Don't mention it." He turned away before he began to blush in response to the unaccustomed gratitude, and went to the linen closet, where he began to pull out a set of spare sheets and a blanket. "You'll have to sleep on the couch: I haven't got a guest room. I'd also offer you a change of clothes, but I'm not sure they'll fit. although I might be able to find some that--"

Florian's light touch on his hand alerted Solomon to the fact that the other man was crouched beside him, and he fell silent in mid-sentence as Florian accepted the folded bedding. "Please, don't trouble yourself," he said softly. "I'm more than satisfied with this." He smiled again, this time a bit more sincerely, and Solomon found himself returning the gesture almost unconsciously.

_How do I get into these things? _he asked himself, not entirely in exasperation.


	2. Contrast

Chapter 2: Contrast

By the time that Noir awoke the next day, morning had already had enough time to fill his bedroom with its punishing light; from this, he knew that it could be no earlier than nine-thirty. He shifted from his awkward position atop the nest of pillows on which he had fallen asleep, and the mostly-empty bottle of brandy in his lap fell to the floor. The noise of its cracking was lost amid the jolt of pain that arced between Noir's temples as he lifted his head, and he slumped back down, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to will the hangover away.

__

How much did I drink? he asked himself, and found that he couldn't quite recall the answer. Had he been able to rise sufficiently to examine his surroundings, he would likely have been able to make use of the knowledge that a drained goblet sat on the mantelpiece across the room, and the shards of another decorated the floor of the fireplace. He might also have remembered the bottle of expensive wine that he had excavated from the cellar as an apology for his behaviour toward Florian, and the fact that he had consumed more than half of it by the time he realized that Florian wasn't coming back, when he had switched to something stronger.

As things were, it took Noir the better part of a minute to collect his thoughts enough to remember that, as far as he knew, Florian was still missing. Part of him suggested that he should forget about it, and work on sleeping off his own grievances. It was likely that Florian still needed space, and so, even if he hadn't come home yet, there was no reason to assume the worst. He was, after all, a grown man: he could take care of himself. At the moment, Noir's mental voice insisted, Florian was probably lounging about one of Paris' finer hotels, working through whatever he needed to before he could come home. He would, of course, come home in the end: it was just a matter of time.

As soon as this voice had receded, another, far stronger, took its place. This one questioned how Florian could have spent the night at a hotel when, in all likelihood, his wallet was still on top of his bureau, where he was in the habit of leaving it. It reminded Noir that Florian was not the type of person to be kept away for long because of an argument: in the past, Florian had shown that he far preferred proactive resolutions to prolonged periods of sulking. As evidence in favour of the necessity for panic, it cited Florian's frequent kidnappings, and seemingly-limitless ability to get himself into other sorts of trouble. _If he hasn't come back by now_, it finished, _something's wrong_.

And, of course, Noir agreed. However, despite the most heroic of efforts, he could only manage to hold himself in a sitting position for a few moments; standing was completely out of the question.

He was fast asleep before he could even think to try again.

----

Solomon awoke gradually, as he always did, soon after dawn. With a yawn, he shifted sleepily on his hard mattress, and groped for his glasses on the small table by his bed. He remembered nothing of Florian's visit, or his unorthodox request; as far as he was concerned, he was as alone as he had been the previous morning, and as he believed he would be until the day on which he failed to awaken.

Understandably, a clattering noise from the kitchen jarred him completely awake, and his instincts had driven him at least three steps from his bed before he remembered his guest. With a sigh, Solomon removed his glasses and pressed a hand to his face, tracking the ebb of his adrenaline as his breathing slowed. _I'm going to give myself a heart attack one of these days._

He spent the next few minutes making himself presentable, and then ventured into the kitchen, where he found Florian standing over the small stove with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A large bowl, surrounded by patches of spilled flour, was on the table, and Florian was so focused on whatever was in the pan before him that he didn't seem to have registered Solomon's presence.

"Good morning," Solomon said after a few seconds had passed. He couldn't help but smile as Florian's head snapped around in surprise, but he managed to quell the urge to laugh. "I don't recall giving you permission to use my kitchen."

A tinge of pink appeared on Florian's face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to cook you breakfast, to express my gratitude." His lips tensed into a thin line. "I wasn't thinking. Please, forgive me."

Solomon blinked, and this time, he did laugh. "Don't worry about it: I was just joking. You're welcome to anything you like." He moved to stand behind Florian's shoulder. "What're we having?"

The colour didn't leave Florian's face, but he smiled cautiously. "Pancakes... at least, I hope so." He poked the puddle of golden mixture in the frying pan with the edge of his spatula, squinting as though the task required utmost concentration. Solomon found this strangely endearing, and was glad that his current position placed his grin out of the angle of Florian's vision. "I hope they come out properly. I haven't done this in a while."

"Well, I don't suppose there's much of an opportunity to practice cooking when you have a culinary staff, is there?" Even as Solomon was speaking the words, he began to regret them; the expression that crossed Florian's face as he heard them made Solomon want to slap himself. _Not two minutes into the conversation, and I've already reminded him of Ray. Great work, Sugar._

"Jeanne would have had my head for messing up her kitchen." Florian's tone was significantly dampened, and Solomon exhaled heavily.

"Florian, I--" he began.

Florian cut him off. "It's ready," he said, and his smile simulated his former contentment almost convincingly enough to fool Solomon. "It's rather big. I thought we might split it, if that's alright with you? I can always--"

"I'm sorry," Solomon interrupted, and Florian froze. "I should have kept my stupid mouth shut. I've been living alone for too long, and half the time, I don't think before I open my mouth. I'm not used to there being anyone around to hurt." He folded his arms over his chest and sighed. "Please, forgive me."

Florian licked his lips, and set the rapidly-cooling pan down on the table. "There's no reason for you to apologize, Solomon, but I appreciate your consideration." He smiled again, and this time, his happiness was authentic. "Thank you."

Solomon shook his head as he moved to sit down at the table. "Don't mention it," he said as he slid into his usual place. "I'm fine with splitting it... the pancake, I mean."

Amusement twinkled in Florian's eyes. "Is there anything else in particular that you were considering splitting?"

"I'm not sure." Solomon's expression mirrored Florian's. "There's some old furniture in the alley that could be mistaken for logs."

"Splitting logs in April seems like a waste of effort to me." Florian slid Solomon's half of the pancake onto a plate, and handed it to his host. "Surely, you might find a more... worthwhile outlet for your energies?"

Solomon lifted a forkful of the pancake into his mouth; even plain, it carried a hint of some unfamiliar flavour, and he forced himself to observe the rules of propriety at least closely enough to swallow before cutting himself another piece. "Well, if I can't, maybe you'll teach me cooking?" He made sure to swallow his next mouthful before adding, "It really is amazing."

Florian took a cautious bite himself, and frowned. "It's a bit blander than I'd intended."

"If you call this bland, remind me never to cook for you. You'd never be able to stomach anything I've made."

Florian laughed. "Well, I'd give it a try anyway, if only out of appreciation for the gesture." Conciliation appeared in his face. "I'm sure it would be delicious."

"There's one assumption you don't want to stake your life on," Solomon muttered.

"If you say so." Florian shrugged, but his mirth remained undiminished. "You know, you're going to have to prove it to me sometime."

"Why?"

The glint in Florian's eyes intensified ever so slightly. "Because I'll never believe you otherwise."

Solomon stared, then shrugged. "It's your funeral," he said, hiding his smile behind a new forkful of pancake.

"I can't wait," Florian said.


	3. Balancing the Salt

Chapter 3: Balancing the Salt

When Noir next awoke, the day had withered to a faint glow. Experimentally, he raised himself onto his elbows and turned his head; a lingering pain pulsed in his temples, but it was certainly nowhere near severe enough to keep him down any longer. With a resolute grunt, he rolled into a sitting position, and flicked his eyes in the direction of the nearest clock. _Five-thirty. Florian must be back by now._

Though he wanted nothing more than to confirm this supposed certainty, Noir forced himself to endure the necessary evil of making himself presentable, a ritual which included a bath, the selection of just the right clothing, and a losing battle to style his hair in a way that didn't remind him of a chicken who's just explored an electrical socket too closely.

Once these trials had been completed satisfactorily, Noir finally stepped out of his room and crossed the short distance to Florian's. The door was closed, but that by itself meant nothing. "Florian?" he called, not quite gently. No answer came, and so he rapped once on the door. "Florian, are you there?"

Noir counted seven seconds of silence before his patience evaporated, and he tried the handle. The door opened easily, and this encouraged him during the brief moment before he discovered that the room beyond it was empty. Furthermore, and far more worrisome, it was as immaculate as a museum exhibit. There was no trace of the myriad objects that Florian, who could be extremely absent-minded, usually left strewn around during the course of a normal day, and the bedclothes were perfectly smooth, despite Florian's habit of disturbing them almost as soon as the servants had arranged them. Apprehension rose into Noir's throat, and he met it with a swallow of logic. _Maybe he spent most of the day elsewhere. After all, it's not as though he lives in his room. He's probably in the library._

But, of course, Florian wasn't in the library. Neither was he in the drawing rooms, the kitchen, the dining room, the laundry room, or the basement, and a quick survey of the grounds earned Noir only an intensification of his frustrated worry. _Where the Hell is he?_

The first servant unlucky enough to cross his path was the maid Juliette; Noir was nearly far enough gone to miss the tensing of her shoulders as his gaze landed on her. "Have you seen Florian today?" he demanded.

Juliette inclined her head respectfully. "No, Count Courland," she replied. "I have not."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?" Noir was aware that he was dangerously close to snarling, and reined himself in with a surprisingly great effort of will.

"No, I do not." Juliette's mouth tensed into a stiff, unyielding line. "My apologies, Count Courland."

For a moment, Noir considered interrogating her further, but finally decided against it. What was the point, when she so obviously knew no more than he did? "If you see him, please tell him that he's to come see me immediately."

"Yes, Count Courland," Juliette said, and Noir could almost sense her relief as he left her until thoughts of Florian pushed everything else from his mind. _What should I do? What_ can _I do? _The entirety of his consciousness seemed to be screaming for him to charge into the streets and search until he found Florian, but logic exposed that idea as ridiculously unfeasible. Running around blindly was a fast track to nowhere in a city the size of Paris, and besides, there was at least as good a chance that Florian didn't want to be found as there was of him having been kept away against his will. How much farther would Noir go toward alienating him completely if he denied him the time and space he seemed to need so badly? And yet, there was always the possibility that something had happened...

With a heavy sigh, Noir returned to the library, sat down, and opened the book on the table beside him, though he knew that he would never be able to concentrate on it. Though he hated himself for choosing inaction, he felt he owed it to Florian to trust both that the other man could take care of himself, and that he would come back when he was ready.

He tried vainly to stop his mind from replacing the 'when' in the latter condition with 'if'.

----

"We can talk about it, if you want."

Florian looked up from the book in his lap, one of the few that Solomon owned, and blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Solomon sighed as he leaned against the wall not quite diagonally across the living room from Florian. "The reason for your last visit. What I had Ruby do to you." He adjusted his glasses. "It seems strange that you're pretending it never happened."

"Does it, really?" Florian closed the book; his eyes never left Solomon.

"Yes."

Florian closed his eyes briefly. "And what do you expect me to say?" His voice was devoid of bitterness or sarcasm. "Do you expect me to shout at you? Do you think that I still hold enough of a grudge against you to want that?" He paused. "Do you seriously think that I would have approached you for help if I hadn't forgiven you already?"

"You could have been extremely desperate," Solomon offered pragmatically.

"As, indeed, I was. But I think you know that I wouldn't have let myself come here if that was all that drove me." Florian chuckled. "I doubt that my lingering aristocratic pride would have let me." He lapsed into silence, and when Solomon made no move to fill it, he added, "Is it so strange to you, the idea that I've put it behind me?"

"Yes," Solomon replied immediately, and was almost shocked to find that the word was true. "I did put you through a lot, and when you left that day..." A grin flashed across his face. "Well, I didn't think you'd brake if you saw me crossing the street, much less ever speak to me again."

"But you did the right thing, in the end. You didn't destroy us." Florian smiled, and the expression was almost beatific. "You had your dream in your hands, and you threw it away because you realized that we didn't deserve to pay its price." His eyes softened, and Solomon felt himself swallowing involuntarily. "I won't pretend that, at the moment, I saw things this way, but now that it's over, and I've had some time to come to terms with it..." He paused. "If anything, Solomon, I respect you more than I did before it happened. Yes, the experience was difficult, and no, you weren't exactly heroic, but in the end, you made it clear that you're a good man. The true you, the person at your core, won out." He looked away, and Solomon was dimly aware that Florian's attention was no longer his. "As it does in all of us," he finished in a prophet's whisper.

Solomon waited until the latest period of silence had nearly become oppressive before admitting, "I don't know what to say." He cleared his throat. "Uh... thank you, I guess."

The words felt disgustingly inadequate, but Florian either failed to notice or didn't mind. Solomon believed the latter far more readily. "No: thank you. I apologize for not saying it sooner, but thank you for giving us our lives back." He lowered his head. "I'm sorry it cost you so much."

"Yeah, well... like you said, that wasn't the way I wanted it." Solomon glanced at his watch, and saw that it was past four-thirty. "I'm not throwing you out or anything, but--"

"--I should be going back to Ray's," Florian finished.

Solomon nodded. "Don't get me wrong, though. You can stay as long as you want, as long as you don't forget that you'll have to face him again eventually." The corners of his mouth tensed, almost uncertainly, and then rose very slightly. "I'd wager that the longer you wait, the harder it's going to be."

"I know, and you're right." There was some quality in Florian's voice, a resignation so deeply ingrained as to be nearly imperceptible, that struck Solomon as unbearably sad. "I will have to go back sometime." He met Solomon's gaze, and sighed. "I hate to impose upon you further, but if you don't mind me staying another night... I'll do it tomorrow. I promise." His own gaze was imploring, and if Solomon had needed any reason to let him stay beyond his own reluctance to return to loneliness, he was sure he would have found it in Florian's eyes in that moment.

"Of course." Solomon hoped his attempt at a cavalier smirk covered up his true feelings sufficiently, and doubted it very much. "Now, what do you want for dinner?"

Florian shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Please don't put yourself to any trouble."

"No trouble. Got it." Solomon collected his keys from a nearby table and began to move toward the door. "I'm just going to the store for a second, alright?"

"Alright." He was nearly out of the apartment before Florian spoke again. "Solomon?"

Solomon froze, almost in mid-step. "Yeah?"

"Thank you." The intensity of the gratitude in Florian's tone made heat bleed into Solomon's cheeks, and he was grateful that his back was to his guest.

"Let's call it even," he said as he stepped outside.


	4. True Colours

Author's Note: I'd like to extend my apologies to all those of you whose reviews I have yet to answer. I promise to get to them as soon as I can.

Supplementary Dedication: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to ashlia, whose comments about the difference between loving someone intensely and loving them well were very helpful in writing it. Thank you very much for the inspiration, ashlia!

Chapter 4: True Colours

"Do you have everything?"

Florian looked back at Solomon, and chuckled. "I didn't exactly arrive with a complete set of luggage," he said as he tucked his own clothes, which were now rolled up into a convenient package, under his arm. "Thank you for everything, Solomon. I promise to send these clothes back once I've had them washed." He gestured to the loose-fitting shirt and pants that he now wore in their place.

Solomon shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad we could find something that fit." He grinned. "Either you're way too thin, or I need to lose a few pounds."

"It's probably the former: the tailors are always shocked when they take my measurements." Florian's smile dimmed slightly. "Ray tries to get me to eat more, but..." He shrugged. "I'm sorry. Here I am, going on about something perfectly irrelevant, and taking up even more of your time."

"Not at all." Solomon's grin melted into an expression that was almost, but not quite, warm. "In fact, Florian... I wanted to let you know that, if you need anything else, and I can help out, I really don't mind." His gaze slid away from Florian's, with almost unconscious ease. "I mean, I can't offer much, obviously, but if you need someone to talk to, or just to get away for an hour or two, I'd be happy to be of assistance."

Florian's face passed through surprise on its way to cautious curiosity. "Why are you saying this, Solomon?" he asked quietly.

Solomon swallowed. "Well, I mean... I know it's a bit forward, especially given our recent history, but..." He sighed. "You want the truth?"

"Always."

"I think you could use a friend."

Florian's expression became unreadable, and Solomon fought the urge to fill the silence that followed with any number of moronic words until, finally, Florian said, "Thank you."

Solomon exhaled, only just becoming aware that he had been holding his breath. "You don't need to thank me. It's really nothing--"

"No," Florian interrupted. "I'm not thanking you for the offer, though I do appreciate it. I'm thanking you for paying enough attention to me to realize that it might be necessary." A sparkle passed through his eyes, and Solomon was terrified by how quickly he believed he could become used to observing it. "I promise to come by again soon... though hopefully not because I need something." He grinned. "I wouldn't, after all, want you to think that my association with you is entirely pragmatic."

"'Association', huh?" Solomon echoed.

"Of the most congenial nature, of course." Florian glanced at his watch, and frowned. "It's already eight-thirty?"

"Looks like it," Solomon replied, without checking his own watch.

"I really should be going, then. Ray must be frantic by now..." Fine lines spread across Florian's brow. "Do you think it was remiss of me not to send him a note, at least, just so he knew I was alright?"

"I think he'll be happy to have you home again." Solomon hoped his evasion didn't sound as obviously transparent to Florian as it did to himself, and realized that it must.

If Florian did notice, however, he let it pass. "You're probably right." He turned toward the door, almost hesitantly, and only looked back once he was over the threshold. "Thank you again, Solomon."

"My pleasure," was Solomon's automatic reply. He was shocked to discover how completely he meant it.

---

By the time that Florian arrived home, Noir was indeed frantic. In fact, the first thing that Florian heard when one of the cleaning maids answered the door was Noir's sharp voice, presumably directed at another servant. "If Monsieur du Rochefort returns while I'm out, you're to keep him here until I return. Under no circumstances is he to leave the house. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Count Courland," an infinitely softer female voice answered as Florian hesitated outside the open door of Noir's study, from where the voices seemed to be issuing.

"Alright, then. I'll be going." A scuffling, presumably the sound of Noir rising from his chair. "If anyone should call for me, make some excuse. You should be more than experienced enough at that by now, after all the..."

He trailed off as Florian stepped into the doorframe, and his worry evaporated into an emotion that Florian didn't quite care to define. "Good morning," he said sheepishly when it became clear that Noir wasn't inclined to speak first. "I'm back."

"Evidently." Noir's tone held an unmistakable chill, and it was all Florian could do to hold his ground. "Leave us," he said to the maid, and Florian was grateful for the sympathy in her face as she brushed past him on her way out.

Once they were alone, Florian drew a deep breath. "Noir--"

"Close the door." The absolute neutrality of Noir's tone was nearly more terrifying than his ire, but Florian obeyed nonetheless. Once it was done, he turned his back to the door, and waited for whatever was coming.

On the way over, Florian had prepared himself for every eventuality he could think of, most of which could be summed up quite nicely as a continuation of their previous argument. He had certainly not prepared himself for this, the cold, empty silence that now stretched out between them, like an impossible ravine. He waited, doing his best to calm his nerves, while Noir examined him, seeming to pay particular attention to his borrowed clothes and, he only now realized, unwashed hair. He watched Noir lean back in his chair, carefully select a cigar, light it, and inhale deeply before his impatience finally overcame his apprehension.

"Would you just say something?" His voice was quieter than he had anticipated. "I don't care if you shout, or if you're angry... just, please, talk to me."

"And what would you have me say?" The words were carefully paced, almost to the point of recitation. "Do you want me to apologize, perhaps, for driving you away? Do you want me to demand that you account for your whereabouts, and how they precluded your notifying me that nothing grievous had happened to you?" Here, Noir's voice accrued some intensity, but Florian was powerless to define its source. "Do you want me to confess how sick I've been, worrying about you, possibly against a backdrop of relieved tears?" He exhaled a puff of smoke and set the cigar down before clasping his hands on the desk. "Because, to be perfectly honest, Florian... I feel myself quite capable of any one of those reactions at this moment."

"I don't care what you say." This wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough for Florian's purposes. "I just... I missed you, Noir."

Something flickered through Noir's eyes, almost too quickly to be apprehended, and though Florian could not classify it, it did not escape him. "Really? I never would have guessed." Despite the lack of venom in these words, they wounded Florian, perhaps because they struck perilously close to one of his own concerns: _why did I never try to contact him? Why, even today, did part of me not want to come back?_

"I'm sorry," he said.

Noir sniffed. "Whatever. You're back now. Just forget about it."

Florian would, quite possibly, never know what aspect of this reply caused what felt like the entirety of his inner being to shift, roil, and align itself against Noir. Perhaps it was the dismissive tone, which made him feel insignificant, beneath notice. Perhaps it was the words themselves, which underscored just how immature Noir was. Perhaps it was the similarity between this conversation and their last one, and what that seemed to say about their relationship as a whole.

Perhaps it was the realization that Solomon, who was barely an acquaintance, had made more of an effort to understand him than Noir seemed capable of putting forward.

Whatever it was, it was powerful to make Florian say: "You're such a spoiled brat."

A shallow spasm passed through Noir's shoulders, and he sat up in his chair, almost impossibly straight. "Take that back," he snarled.

"No." Florian licked his lips, but entertained no thought of backing down. "Why should I always be the one apologizing? Why is it always me who has to watch his tongue, and cower when you're in a bad mood? Why am I making all the effort?"

"Shut up," Noir said warningly.

"No!" Florian jabbed his left index finger at Noir, almost mechanically. "I've spent my life biting my tongue; I did it for my mother, and now I'm doing it for you. And it makes me sick!" He inhaled shallowly, shakily. "I know you've had a hard life. I know nothing's been easy for you. I've tried to be understanding, and supportive, because I believe that you're worth it." Compassion softened his stance, very slightly. "I wish you thought me worth that much."

"You have no idea how much you're worth to me." Noir's voice was weak, and it was an effort for Florian to quell the instinct to comfort him.

"No, you're right. I don't." Florian folded his arms.

"I love you." Even now, after all that had passed between them, the words were an obvious effort.

"I've never doubted that." Florian closed his eyes, and turned away. "I just wonder if that's enough."

Noir said nothing, and eventually, Florian left.


	5. Misguided Effort

Chapter 5: Misguided Effort

For the first time since he had met Florian, Noir was sincerely shocked.

Of course, he had been aware of Florian's strength: he had relied on it more often than he would ever care to admit. And, of course, he had known that Florian would, one day, need to assert his independence. He had never consciously believed in his ability to keep the other man chained to him, debt or no debt; no, his Amethyst was much too complex a jewel to be set into the stagnant embrace of a ring. And yet, now that the rebellion that he had been waiting for seemed as though it was not only on its way, but crouched on the doorstep, he had no idea what to do.

And so, he did nothing.

He was beyond surprised to find Florian in the dining room at dinnertime: he had been certain that after that morning's argument, which had arguably been more intense than their first, Florian would have run away again. He had been so certain of this, in fact, that he hadn't even bothered to check if Florian was still in the house. And yet, there he was, chatting with the serving staff in one of his more comfortable lavender suits, as though nothing had happened. This illusion was much too transparent to fool Noir, though: for the first time since he had received it, Florian hadn't worn the topaz brooch to dinner.

This omission, small though it was and innocent though it could have been, terrified Ray all over again.

This terror kept him silent until well into the second course, when the silence became far too oppressive to ignore any longer. "What do you want?" he asked softly.

"Nothing," Florian said, with almost perfect neutrality, around a mouthful of soup.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say."

"Really?" Disbelief, forced but not entirely artificial, crossed Florian's face as he tore a chunk of bread from the roll beside his wine glass. "And what are you sorry for?"

Noir scowled. "Whatever you're still angry over. Everything." He dropped his own spoon and pressed the hand that had held it to his head. "Look... we both screwed up. Can't we just put it behind us, and get on with our lives?" He moved his hand away from his face, and met Florian's slightly-sardonic gaze. "Is that too much to ask?"

Florian looked away, as though he was profoundly disinterested in Noir's speech, and Noir believed this more devastating than any impassioned rebuke of the kind that had passed between them that morning. "What have I done wrong?" he nearly whispered.

Noir's scowl deepened. "You were gone for two days without telling me anything."

"I'm sorry. I had forgotten that I was your prisoner."

A twitch passed over Noir's right eye. "I didn't say that."

Florian turned to face him. "You didn't have to."

Beneath the table, the nails of Noir's left hand dug into his palm. "What the Hell is your problem? I'm trying to apologize, and you're playing the God-damn ice prince."

Florian ran a hand through his hair, as though Noir were a particularly dense child with whose education he had found himself charged. "An apology is only meaningful if it's evidence of sincere repentance." His tone was almost scathingly superior, and it threatened to send Noir into a rage. In that moment, he began to understand how quickly deep love, and the vulnerability it carried, could invite deep hatred. "You're just mouthing the words because you don't want me to be angry anymore. It's a mockery."

"You don't think I mean it?" Noir's nostrils flared. "You're calling me a liar?"

"I think your words carry as much sincerity as you are capable of understanding, which isn't very much." Florian set his napkin down beside his mostly-empty soup bowl, and rose from the table. "Excuse me."

"And if I choose not to 'excuse you'?" Noir called after him.

Florian shrugged. "As you will," he said, and left the room.

Noir ate no more that night.

---

By the third day after Florian's return to Ray's mansion, Solomon had almost returned completely enough to his solitary routine to forget the feeling of companionship. Because of this, it took him a moment or two to place the words of the young man who showed up on his doorstep that morning into their proper context. "I'm sorry. This package is from Florian?"

The young man nodded far too enthusiastically, as though twice the daily recommended dose of caffeine had just hit his bloodstream. "Yes, Monsieur. He said to transmit his thanks once again for your generosity, as well as his wishes for your well-being." He extended the neatly-wrapped box to Solomon.

Almost on autopilot, Solomon accepted the box. "Oh... yes. Please tell him that no thanks are necessary, and that I hope he's doing well also."

"Yes, Monsieur." The young man bowed, and turned back down the hall. He was nearly at the stairs by the time Solomon thought to close the door behind him.

That done, he focused his attention on the box. _What on Earth could Florian have sent me?_ was the first and only thought to pass through his mind before he remembered the clothes that Florian had left in. And, sure enough, once he got the box open, there they were, obviously laundered and carefully folded. To Solomon, who was used to having his clothes dragged through a washtub by a half-crazed old woman for a few copper coins, even this insignificant luxury was a reminder of the gap that existed between Ray's lifestyle and his own. _It's like they live in a different world._

As he lifted the shirt from the box, a glint of silver on the neckline caught his attention, and he noticed the folded paper that was pinned there. Taking special care to avoid tearing it, he extricated the page from the fabric. He assumed that it was yet another expression of Florian's gratitude, and hoped that it contained no monetary gift: happily, though, the paper was too thin to be a cheque.

The letter was written in black ink, and the handwriting was so elegant as to leave no doubt of its author's identity. With an amused smile, Solomon sat down to read; the shirt, hanging halfway out of the box and quite possibly becoming creased, was forgotten.

_Dear Solomon,_

_Thank you again for your generosity. I have given instructions that the messenger to whom this package is entrusted is also to transmit my gratitude to you, but I also wished to thank you more personally. I trust that you are well, and that your clothing has been returned to you in satisfactory condition._

_Before I left, you asked that I approach you should I find myself in need of a friend, and while I am loath to impose upon your generosity yet again, it seems that I must. I hesitate, however, to entrust any details to this letter, and so I invite you to lunch with me, anywhere and at any time you find convenient. I will send another messenger to collect your reply early this afternoon._

_Once more, thank you, for everything._

Solomon examined Florian's intricate signature while the contents of the letter sank in. Once they had, he set the paper aside, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. It was futile to deny the happiness with which Florian's invitation had suffused him: the anticipation of seeing Florian again and the charm of being needed were too potent a combination for him to ignore. Even so, he was worried. His instincts were too finely-honed to ignore what lurked beneath the surface of Florian's request: he knew too well the pull of the attractive unknown, which only became more intense in the presence of adversity. He was aware that, however subconsciously, Florian was drifting toward him because of whatever problems he was experiencing with Ray, and he needed no one to tell him how unhealthy that impulse could become.

He was already disgusted with himself by the time he realized that, at the moment, he had no wish to refuse to play any role Florian might require of him, however unhealthy.

Part of him told Solomon that the best thing to do would be to make a clean break, to leave Florian to fix his problems on his own, despite his own all-too-warranted offer of help. After all, what did he have to offer Florian but another dead-end road? And yet, no matter how many times he reminded himself of this, one fact remained untouchably solid: he could not abandon Florian, and as long as that was true, there was only one course of action he could follow.

With a resigned sigh, he began to search for a reasonably presentable sheet of paper on which to compose his acceptance of Florian's invitation.


	6. Placing the Blame

Chapter 6: Placing the Blame

In the aftermath of their dinnertime confrontation, Noir took to spending most of his time locked in his study, venturing out only when there was no other alternative. Florian tried to tell himself that this suited him just fine, that they needed space, and that he couldn't stand another argument, but despite his best efforts, it did bother him. How could it not, after all? What sort of person could appreciate this sort of exclusion, this consciousness of having been sealed off from someone who, however unfortunately, meant the world to him? Indifference, of the kind that he imagined would point to strength in this situation, was absolutely impossible, and the shade of it in which he had draped himself was just a liar's shroud.

And so, when Solomon's reply arrived, Florian scribbled and sent off his confirmatory acceptance immediately, though the proposed date was a bit closer at hand than propriety demanded. He didn't care that he might come off as too desperate; he didn't consider what that said about him, and the person he had, however temporarily, become. The desire to share himself with someone was stifling, almost choking, and he thought of nothing but the time between the present moment and the appointed time of his rendezvous with Solomon, and how he could make it pass more quickly.

Noir, his grievances, and the question of where the blame for them should be laid would simply have to wait.

---

Though Noir could indeed be far more childish than he would willingly admit, he was disappointed by how easily he was able to lead Florian to believe that he was, in fact, spending upwards of thirteen hours a day sulking in his study. In actuality, Noir had barely visited his former sanctuary since the scene at the dinner table; a far more important activity had taken over the majority of his waking hours.

Specifically, he had begun stalking Florian.

Which, on paper, was a deceptively simple task, especially for a Phantom who had kept the Paris police running in circles long enough to become a legend. In practice, however, it was beyond challenging. Florian, after all, knew the geography of the house at least as well as Noir himself did, and so it could be frustratingly difficult for Noir to stay close enough to him to keep track of his movements without being observed. To be fair, the servants could be helpful, but one of them would surely comment on their master's sudden obsession with every detail of Florian's routine if Noir asked too many questions.

At heart, Noir knew that he was being stupid. He wouldn't be able to keep the game up forever: he had only been able to carry it this far because Florian had, uncharacteristically, failed to venture outside for a few days, but even if Florian developed a convenient case of agoraphobia, he was bound to notice his second shadow at some point. Besides that, Noir's investigations had yet to turn up any information more pertinent than the fact that the maids were slacking off on keeping some of the dining room's display china polished, which earned them a reprimand but failed to provide Noir with any insight into Florian's cold fury, and how to appease it.

And then, one day, Noir glimpsed a familiar wave of blond hair moving down the front steps through an upstairs window, and anticipation jolted him into hyper-alertness. No one had mentioned that Florian planned to go out, and Noir couldn't think of any household errands warranting sudden attention that hadn't already been taken care of by one of the staff. Of course, it was possible that this outing was perfectly innocuous, and it would doubtlessly be even more difficult to shadow Florian through a busy street, but Noir had never let an opportunity pass unexploited.

Impatiently, Ray watched his lover leave; once he was gone, Noir followed.

---

Solomon waited in front of the inexpensive cafe at which he had chosen to meet Florian, inching closer to losing the battle to stand still with each passing heartbeat. He remembered the last time he'd been there, with Ruby, and found it ironic that this spot, which had been a site of his efforts to destroy Ray and, by extension, Florian, would soon see him acting the part of Florian's friend.

He realized in a rush just why those who insisted on personifying Fate so often called her capricious.

Solomon was easily able to pick Florian out of the rest of the people drifting along the street as soon as he entered his sight. Nervousness drew veins in the ropes of tension that seemed to have knotted themselves in the muscles of his back, and though Solomon was sure that he would have trouble keeping down even a cup of tea, he still managed to greet Florian with his most welcoming, if not most sincere, smile.

"Good morning," he called once Florian was within polite earshot.

"Good morning," Florian replied with a deferential nod. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."

Solomon grinned in the hopes that the expression would cover his unease. "It's nothing. Please, don't mention it." He chuckled. "It makes me a bit nervous when you keep thanking me like that. I never know what to say."

Florian lowered his head, but Solomon caught the ghost of a smile on his lips before his hair obscured them from view. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just..." He raised his head. "I am very grateful for what you've done for me."

"Well, I won't knock your appreciation, but..." Solomon shrugged. "I don't know. It just seems to me that I'm doing what any decent person could be expected to do for someone they care about." His words echoed back through his mind, and he cleared his throat. "That may have come out a bit wrong."

When he regained eye contact with Florian a few seconds later, there was a distant expression on the other man's face. "For someone they care about..." he repeated, as though he were tasting the words.

Solomon sighed. "Ah... just forget I said anything. It's just me running my mouth again. I'm sorry."

Some of the distance in Florian's face evaporated, and he held up his hand. "Please, don't apologize. I was just pondering the wisdom of your words." He turned toward the cafe entrance. "Shall we go in?"

"After you," Solomon said, with no small measure of relief.

---

Across the street, about a block from the cafe, Noir stood against a streetlamp, allowing the pedestrian traffic to flow around him. _Solomon_, the darkest part of his mind whispered. _Solomon Sugar... it's him._ A flash of Florian, wearing borrowed clothes, crossed his mind, and his left hand clenched into a fist. _It was him Florian stayed with... he must have done something, or said something, to brainwash him. _Though he knew that Florian was too strong-willed a person to fall for such a thing, he couldn't stop his next thought from ascending to his conscious mind. _He poisoned him against me. I don't know how, but he did._

A metaphysical ache spread through his heart, giving birth to a counterpart pain in his temples, and he turned back toward his mansion, and away from his lover. For the moment, he would surrender, but now that he believed himself in possession of the truth of the matter, he knew that he would not stand idly by while Florian was taken from him.

_You caught me off guard at first, Sugar,_ he thought as the lower-class pedestrians cleared a path for him. _Now, it's war._

---

"I'm going to leave Ray."

Solomon forced himself to swallow his mouthful of water before reacting to Florian's statement. "That's a big decision," he said cautiously. "Are you sure?"

Florian shook his head. "No, I'm not... to tell the truth, it doesn't even feel real. Still..." He leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands in his lap. "I can't go on like this."

"Have you tried talking to him? If you can make him understand how you feel, then you might be able to work this out."

Irritation washed over Florian's face in a brief wave. "Do you think I would consider leaving him if I hadn't tried that already?" He sighed apologetically. "There's no talking to him. He's so..." Another sigh. "I don't know. Maybe I'm the one who doesn't understand. Maybe it's my fault."

"In my experience, it's rarely just one person who's at fault." Solomon tilted his head to the left slightly. "It's good that you're taking responsibility, but don't put everything on yourself."

"Maybe." Florian averted his gaze, as though the tablecloth's floral pattern had just seized his attention.

"Do you plan to leave him very soon?" Solomon asked when it became clear that, for the moment, Florian had nothing more to say.

"I think that would be for the best."

"I see." Solomon paused to sip his water. "Have you given any thought to the practicalities of leaving? You know, where you're going to live, how you'll support yourself..."

Florian's gaze moved to the right, in the direction of the street beyond the terrace railing. "Ray promised me an allowance if I ever decided to move out, but I could never accept that now. I have a little money saved, but it won't last long... I'll have to get a job, I suppose. There's not much I can do, but I might be able to find work as a servant in one of my acquaintances' households." He sniffed. "I know a few who would get quite a laugh out of hiring the last scion of the Rochefort line to scrub their floors."

Solomon frowned at that mental image. "It's a hard life," he said, far too conscious of how little of Florian's projected reality was captured by those inadequate words.

"I don't mind." The edge crept back into Florian's tone. "I'm not a spoiled princess."

"I never believed otherwise," Solomon agreed smoothly.

During the silence that followed, a waiter came to take their orders; once he was gone, Florian looked directly at Solomon once again. "I don't want to leave, you know. I love him. He's just... I don't feel as though I have a choice."

"I understand."

Need, evanescent yet intense, rose into Florian's eyes. "Am I doing the right thing?"

"I wish I knew." Solomon's gaze strayed to his own right hand, which rested on the table by his knife. "If you're still not certain, though, I don't think you should do anything rash."

"If I wait any longer, though, I won't have the strength to leave."

Solomon smiled sadly. "I understand that, too." He sat up a bit straighter, and forced himself to project what he hoped Florian would interpret as an image of confidence. "Whatever you choose, Florian, I want you to remember something."

Florian nodded. "I'm listening."

"First, you're a strong, resourceful person. Whether you stay with Ray or not, I have faith that you'll be alright. It might not be easy, but you'll survive." Solomon paused in order to give that statement time to sink in. "Second... even if things don't work out with Ray, there will be other people in your life worthy of your love. He's not the only one."

"You're right, I suppose." Florian crossed one arm over his chest, resting his hand in the crook of his elbow. "Thank you."

Solomon adjusted his glasses. "I'm not done yet. There's one more thing."

"Which is?"

Solomon leaned forward, and Florian did the same; the flame of the decorative candle between them cast shadows over their faces, despite the midday sunlight. "Ray loves you," he murmured, as though the words were a valuable secret. "Whatever you choose, make sure you remember that."

The food arrived then, and though Florian ate very little, they spoke no more of Ray.


	7. Grace in Gravity

Disclaimer: "Grace In Gravity" is the title track of an album by The Story.

Chapter 7: Grace in Gravity

By the time that Solomon finally returned to his apartment, the sun had nearly sunk behind of the building directly across from his living room window, leaving his home in shadow. He sniffed the stale air, mentally cursing the investigation that was looking more and more like a wild goose chase with every moment he invested in it, and reminded himself just as quickly that, wild goose chase or not, it was the only thing standing between him and total bankruptcy that month. _Why didn't I let Florian pay for lunch? I'm too chivalrous for my own good._

A barely discernible noise, like the swish of silk drawn across velvet, reached his ears, and Solomon's mind snapped out of its reverie even as his head snapped toward his bedroom doorway, where a cloaked figure in a top hat, of all things, was standing. His fingers twitched as he contemplated reaching for his gun, which he had thrust into the rear portion of his belt, and he was just about to chance it when realization, sparked no doubt by the few eyewitness accounts of the Phantom Thief Noir that he had committed to memory, made him stop.

"I never thought I'd see the day," he said, and closed the door behind him confidently, as though Noir were an invited guest. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I keep all the jewels in safety deposit boxes."

"If I wanted jewels, I certainly wouldn't have come here." The voice was somewhat unfamiliar, perhaps a bit more thickly accented than Ray's usual timbre, but it was impossible to mistake.

"Then what can I do for you?" As Solomon's eyes adjusted to the darkness, Ray's features began to reveal themselves to him: the shape of his jaw, a faint shimmer of green beneath the brim of his hat. "You look ridiculous, by the way."

"You took something from me." Noir's cape swirled around him as he began to advance, and Solomon tried to tell himself that he wasn't intimidated. "I want it back."

"I sincerely hope you're not referring to Florian." Solomon straightened his shoulders in response to Noir's mute challenge. "He's not a 'thing': he's a person, and you should know better than anyone else that no one has any power over him."

"I would have thought so as well, and yet, here we are." The end of Noir's whip struck the floor with a soft, dull sound, and Solomon slid his right hand over his thigh in what he hoped was a stealthy manner, inching it closer to the gun beneath his coat hem. "Since he came to stay with you, he's been absolutely impossible. What conclusion would you have me draw from that?"

"Maybe you should be looking to what drove him away in the first place." Solomon weighed the distance remaining between them against the time it would take him to reach his gun, and immediately began searching for a backup plan. "I understand that you had some sort of fight?"

The whip cracked through the air, and though it reached its full extension a full five feet from Solomon's face, he could not help but flinch. "That's none of your business," Noir hissed. "We were fine until you took it upon yourself to interfere."

"Then why did Florian run from you in the first place, the day he came here?" In defiance of his pride, Solomon took a single step backward. "Why did he prefer coming to stay with a former enemy to going home to you?"

"Shut up." The whip coiled around Noir's form as he moved forward. "You don't know anything. Keep your goddamn mouth shut."

"I know that Florian wasn't happy," Solomon replied quietly, almost gently. "I know that he wasn't fine. I know that he still isn't."

"Stop it." Though Noir's tone was still firm, it was also pleading.

Still, Solomon had to press him further. _For Florian's sake_. "I know that you'll lose him, Ray, if you don't do something."

"Oh, I'm doing something." Something akin to a lightning flash seemed to illuminate Noir's eyes. "You're the problem. Once I take care of you, everything will be back to the way it was."

"Do you really believe that?"

Though he couldn't be sure, Solomon believed that Noir was sneering. "What else is there to believe?"

"That you don't have any outside interference to blame for your situation. That the trouble between you and Florian began between you and Florian, as a consequence of the way in which you relate to each other." Solomon did his best not to reflect on the experience that had imparted this bit of wisdom to him, far more cruelly than he was transmitting it to Noir. "That you have to find the solution within yourselves, and that you won't be able to do that if you don't recognize that that's where the problem originated."

Noir snorted. "Talking in circles won't work on me."

"Fine: I'll put it more simply. Stop looking for someone else to blame." Solomon raised his chin. "You're smarter than that."

Noir's advance slowed, then stopped entirely, leaving him no more than six feet away from Solomon. His rage was visibly ebbing, and although he was far from being completely appeased, he no longer looked quite so eager to wring Solomon's neck. "Am I, now?"

"Most of the time." Solomon forced himself not to grin too broadly.

Noir looked away, and a quiver ran down the length of the whip as he tightened his grip on its handle. "Why you?" he growled. "Why did he run to you?"

"Who would you have preferred? Some society matron who would have gossiped about it to anyone who would listen?"

"Don't think I've forgotten what you've done." The embers of anger in Noir's eyes flared up again. "I remember what you tried to do to us… to me. Even if Florian's forgiven you, which I cannot help but believe, I have not."

"And your point?"

"I know who you are. I know what you're capable of. And yet…" Noir closed his eyes. "He prefers you to me." His eyes snapped open again, and Solomon was struck by just how much he resembled a panther, coiled to spring.

"I understand how you must feel." Solomon was aware of how weak an offering his words were, but he didn't trust himself to put forward anything deeper.

"No, you don't," Noir snarled. "How could you possibly understand?"

Inexplicably, Solomon felt his face adjusting to mirror the emotion that had suddenly become too intense to ignore, that particular blend of regret, guilt, and hatred that is as poisonous as it is inexorable. "You're still such a child," he said, with the unquestionable wisdom of his namesake and the bitter compassion of a martyr.

Noir's stillness was absolutely perfect. "I'm not," he said, as feebly as any five-year-old trying to convince himself that the monsters in his head don't exist in any reality but his own.

"Yes, you are, and you will be until you grow up enough to face it." This time, it was Solomon who advanced, cautiously but surely. "I won't pretend that I have any answers for you; God knows I'm not a paragon of success. But, Ray..." He stopped. "I can only imagine the things you've had to stand up to, the demons from whose jaws you've had to tear your individuality, just to get to this point. I know that change is never an attractive prospect. And yet... isn't Florian worth it?"

"You're saying that I need to be a different person?" The spark still shimmered in Noir's eyes, though it only accentuated his defeat. "You're saying that I need to be someone else for him?"

Solomon chuckled neutrally as he moved within arm's reach of Noir. "Hardly." He reached forward, and noted Noir's flinch as his fingers slid over his temple. "I'm saying that you need to learn to be more yourself, rather than this schismatic approximation that you've cobbled together." The top hat was easily dislodged, and as he lifted it from Noir's head, Solomon wondered fleetingly just how Ray had managed to avoid losing it on one of his escapades. "You're actually a pretty decent guy, in the end... but who'd ever know it behind all the shadows?"

Bereft of even the minute shade cast by the hat's brim, Noir's eyes were wide and, Solomon thought, slightly red. "Who the Hell asked you anyway?" he spat with at least a vestige of his customary bravado, and then his hat was gone from Solomon's hand, and back in its place. Then, he was gone, and Solomon exhaled heavily, in equal parts relief and exhaustion.

"You're welcome," he said.

----

"I'm sorry."

Though these words were spoken gently, they nevertheless jolted Florian out of the light doze into which he'd slipped at some point between retiring to his room to read and Noir's arrival through the bedroom window. The book on his chest slid onto the mattress beside him as he raised himself up on one elbow to regard his lover with sleep-misted eyes. "We do have doors, you know," he murmured. His vision cleared as he spoke, and a single look at Noir's hunched form tucked into the window seat was more than enough to let Florian know that his attempt at humour had been in bad taste. "What is it?" he asked, instinctively worried.

"I'm sorry," Noir repeated.

"For what?" There was no sarcastic trickery in Florian's voice this time.

For a time, Noir said nothing. Then, almost in a whisper, he spoke. "I've been to see Solomon."

Florian's heart seemed to stop: his first instinct was concern for Solomon's safety, and he had to force himself to keep from jumping to conclusions. _This_ _is Ray, remember. He wouldn't hurt anyone unless he had a good reason. You know him more than well enough to know that._ And, in his heart, Florian did believe his own arguments, but Noir looked so... different, so subdued, so like a wounded animal, that Florian found it hard to doubt him capable of anything.

"And?" he finally breathed, when it seemed that Noir wasn't going to volunteer any more information.

"He told me that you're unhappy. He told me that, if I hope to change that, I'll need to change myself first." Each word sounded as though it had to be torn from some place deep within Noir before it could be uttered. "Are you really..." Here, Noir's voice faltered, and he pressed a gloved hand to his face. "Am I really that difficult to live with? Have I really put you through that much?"

Florian drew a shaky breath. "Noir--"

"Because I didn't mean to." Noir stumbled on, as though something very important depended on his filling the space between them with words, however meaningless. "I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to push you away." He unfolded himself from the window seat sinuously, and Florian was struck anew by his almost-unconscious grace. "I know I did anyway, and I know that I can't take any of it back, but..." He shuffled forward, and landed at the side of Florian's bed in a dishevelled heap. "I love you. Doesn't that count for anything?"

The gravity of the situation, the immense weight that his next reaction would carry, kept Florian paralyzed for a long while. Then, very hesitantly, he slid down from the bed, and knelt on the edge of Noir's cape. "I love you, too," he said, and though Noir stiffened when Florian wrapped his arms around him, he neither pulled away nor moved closer. "But I can't stay."

"Why?" Noir's voice was nearly a whimper. "I'll give you anything you need... anything you want. Just tell me what to do, and--"

"It's not that easy. It's not about you." Florian leaned down, and rested his forehead against Noir's; the top hat had been lost somewhere between the window and the section of the floor they now occupied. "Noir... I want to be with you. More than that, though, I want to be your partner, your equal... and how can I ever be that if I stay dependent on you?"

"We are partners. I need you."

Florian smiled sadly. "Not like this," he insisted gently. "Not as we are now."

"If not now, when?"

"When we've both done enough growing up," was the only answer Florian could come up with.

He did not remind Noir that the fulfillment of that condition might overreach their combined lifetimes.


	8. Always

Author's Note: This will be the final chapter of this story. Thank you to everyone who stuck with it this far: I hope that it continues to meet your expectations.

Disclaimer: Always is the title of a song by the Story, which inspired elements of this chapter's final scene.

Chapter 8: Always

"So, what are your plans?"

Florian opened his eyes slowly, surrendering the protective charade of sleep as he rolled over to face Noir. "I'm not sure yet. I thought I might like to get a job, but there aren't that many opportunities for someone with my... qualifications." He shifted onto his back, and sighed. "I've always wanted to attend university, but I'll probably need to take a job somewhere first, to save up enough to get started. I mean, I've been saving the money you've given me since you cancelled my debt, but it probably won't be enough, and I don't want to have to stop halfway." He didn't voice the myriad, equally repugnant shapes that this transitory job might take, but the image of him scrubbing floors for minimum wage hung between them, and its effects ran through the creases in Noir's face.

"I'll give you the money." The early morning sunlight illuminated Noir's bare shoulder for a fleeting moment before vanishing behind a cloud once more, and Florian was reminded anew of what he was turning his back on, however temporarily: the comfort of Noir's presence, the warmth of his lover curled into him as they slept, that ultimate security that belongs far more frequently to tales of knights and princesses than to anything resembling reality. It settled in his throat as an uncomfortable lump, and the words that would call it all off, that would consign the very idea of his leaving to their storehouse of unpleasant memories and overcome obstacles, ricocheted through his mind, but he refused to voice them. In all honesty, not even Florian himself understood his reasons, but one thing had been clear to him since his conversation with Solomon at the cafe, and he clung to it as an explorer clings to his compass: _if we don't separate now, we'll be happy... but we'll never have the chance to become the people we were meant to be. _The truth he saw in this idea comforted him, and he closed his eyes, very briefly. _I love him too much to hold him back._

"Did you hear me?" Noir said softly.

Florian nodded shallowly. "Yes, I did."

"And?" The sheets shifted, and Noir's shadow fell over him. "Let me do this for you, at least. It's going to be hard enough without worrying about that as well." He grimaced, and Florian reached up to caress his cheek.

"Maybe as a loan?" he suggested, with the barest hint of a smile.

Noir blinked, and though his laughter was both restrained and ironic, it was laughter, and Florian had always been grateful for small mercies. "You do realize that that would place us right back where we started?" His right hand, skilful yet hesitant, slid across Florian's chest. "That I would own you once again?" There was a certain longing in his voice, a tint of regret which Florian did his best to ignore.

"Just until I paid you back." Florian allowed his own hand to trail along the line of Noir's spine and moulded it to the curve of his neck. "Besides..." He hesitated, and barely managed to keep these words from sticking in his throat as well. "... I'll always be yours."

Noir's eyes grew less clear, and he seemed to crumple, landing half on top of Florian, with his face pressed into the other man's chest. "How am I supposed to live without this?" he whispered. "How am I supposed to let you go?" His arm tightened around Florian's waist, as though he could seal them together by the simple act of touch. "How am I supposed to sleep at night, without you? How am I supposed to get through the days if I don't have you to come home to?"

These questions, identical to those which had been haunting Florian since he had become resolved to leave, reminded him not only of the arduousness of the path he had chosen, but also of its necessity. "It's going to be hard for me too," he said, trying for wisdom. "But I wouldn't even think of doing this if I didn't believe that, in the end, we'd be better off." He lifted Noir's free hand to his lips and kissed it chastely.

"How will it be better?" Noir's tone was divided, as though he were trying to understand Florian's position despite his own conviction that there could be no justification for it.

"I imagine that, with a better sense of who we are, we'll relate to each other more easily." Florian smiled hopefully. "We probably won't have as many stupid fights."

Noir grunted, and held Florian just a bit more tightly. "I'll miss our 'stupid fights'."

"Will you, really?"

As they rolled up to regard him, Florian caught a vestige of the usual glimmer in Noir's eyes. "Of course. I enjoy seeing you flustered."

Florian snorted theatrically. "I knew there had to be a reason why you kept instigating them."

"Why _I _kept instigating them?" Noir lifted himself to his elbows, placing one arm on either side of Florian and moving so that their exhalations melded in the space between them. "You have a very... selective memory."

"Perhaps." Florian derived a minute thrill from how easy it was to lift his head and press his lips against Noir's. "I love you."

"Then stay."

Florian began to toy with an errant lock of Noir's hair. "I'll come visit you every chance I get... and I'll write every day."

Noir's lower lip filled out, almost as though he were pouting. "It won't be enough."

"Nothing ever is. You're absolutely insatiable." Florian's lips twisted into a smirk. Noir's need of physical solace mirrored his own, and he was powerless to deny either of them.

"Guilty as charged," Noir replied proudly, and the passionate, desperate kiss that followed put an end to their discussion.

---

After all that had led up to it, Florian's departure was something of an anticlimax: the day started so similarly to its recent predecessors that Noir found it all too easy to delude himself into forgetting that it was, in fact, so much more than he was currently empowered to realize. Florian's careful selection of his clothing, the sensation of Noir's own hair untangling beneath his comb's merciless strokes, even the nearly-burnt toast that accompanied their breakfast... all were as they had always been, and as Noir had expected that they would be until he died.

And then, suddenly, he was standing in the entryway, with Florian's bags between him and the open door, and his lover was descending the stairs for what could very well be the last time. The reality of the situation was impossible to ignore, and despite the strength that he had accumulated throughout the course of his short life, it was all Noir could do to hold himself upright.

Florian made an effort to smile at him as he approached, but the expression only betrayed his own suffering. "Look at us," he said, with a self-deprecation that was only partly insincere. "Isn't this why we said our goodbyes last night, so that this would be easier?"

Noir sniffed. "We should have known better." His voice was heavier, and the sensation of the words coming together in his throat was like the grinding of rusted clockwork.

"Perhaps... but I don't think we could have." Florian stepped forward, and Noir opened his arms reflexively to embrace him. He wanted to freeze them in that state, to meld Florian to him, to bind them together, always, regardless of how numerous or destructive the consequences might be. In that moment, he learned anew how easily a crime of passion could be justified to oneself, and when they separated, he was the first to take a step back.

This seemingly insignificant act, which might have been interpreted as evidence of the most finely-honed control, was in fact an indication of how deeply Noir had fallen under Florian's thrall.

"You'll be here on Thursday?"

Florian nodded. "I promised you I would." He smiled again, and this time, the expression carried a subtle tint of happiness. "I'm already counting the hours."

Noir returned the smile with one of his own, which came out equally half-hearted. "I'm counting the minutes."

For a moment, it seemed that Florian would continue speaking; then, obviously realizing that there was nothing left to say, he nodded once again, collected his bags, and turned toward the door.

"You don't have to go," Noir heard himself saying.

"I know," Florian replied, "and I'm grateful for that. But it is for the best."

As the door closed behind him, all Noir could think of was how often, and for how many varied reasons, people hid behind those words.

---

"Thank you."

Solomon adjusted his glasses. "I didn't do anything."

Florian shook his head. "No, you did. You made me realize what I needed to do, and gave me the safe haven I needed to come to terms with it. More than that... you were my friend, when you had no reason to be." His lips tensed into a horizontal line. "Thank you."

"Well, I still think that there's no need to thank me, but since you insist, I accept your gratitude as graciously as I am able." Solomon made a clumsy attempt at a bow, and Florian laughed, surprising himself with the lack of reservation in the deceptively simple sound. If the smile that appeared on Solomon's face was any indication, he noticed and appreciated the lightening of Florian's mood at least as well as Florian himself had.

"Florian," he said, shifting into seriousness as suddenly as Florian had come to expect him to.

"Yes?"

Solomon's smile became searchingly benevolent. "Are you happier now?"

The length of time that Florian spent considering his reply was testament to his intense maturity. "I think I will be," he finally said.

"Then that is thanks enough." Solomon glanced at the clock on the wall to his right. "I hope that this detour doesn't make you late to meet Ray. I imagine that he's been stalking around that house like a caged panther ever since you left."

"I agree, but I had to come see you." Florian bowed his head. "If I can ever repay you, please--"

Solomon chuckled, and the weight of his hand on Florian's shoulder was at once warm and shocking. "I know," he said softly. "We're friends, after all, right?"

Florian nodded, a bit too vigorously. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Then I understand that I am as welcome to your assistance as you are to mine." Solomon grinned, as though a private joke. "Now, you really had better go. I don't want to have to face down Noir's whip for the crime of detaining you."

Florian grinned back, and though his smile was less broad, it was no less genuine. "Alright. I'll see you soon: perhaps we can go back to that cafe someday, for lunch?"

"I'll be here," Solomon said. Once Florian had gone, his grin withered, and he turned to watch Florian cross the street through the smudged glass of his apartment window.

"Always," he murmured, and forced himself to look away.


End file.
